


a buttercup by any other name would smell as sweet

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Soft, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Scent Kink, Self-Indulgent, Sex Slave Jaskier, Sex Slavery, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: “Now, come, Witcher, I really mustinsist.”“Of course,” he finally conceded, inclining his head in place of a bow. “I thank you again for your generosity, Your Majesty.”The Queen’s smile widened, the expression much more genuine now that she’d gotten her way, and she clapped. “Wonderful! Then it’s decided. You’ll stay the week in the castle, and mylovelyDandelion will be your personal servant for your time here.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 227
Kudos: 1622
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	a buttercup by any other name would smell as sweet

**Author's Note:**

> woohoo i cannot BELIEVE this was the first fic i finished for this fandom. wow. i'm incredible. please forgive my terrible butchered shakespeare quote for a title i think i'm clever
> 
> this fic is. _very_ self-indulgent porn from a random idea that came to me when i was very tired and frankly should be given no more weight than that. i put canon into a blender and yeeted it in the trash. also, i've only read 2 of the books, seen like 1/4 of wild hunt played, and seen the netflix show twice, so. 'in character' is just so out of trend these days (also there's like six sources for canon don't @ me)
> 
> mildly dubious consent tag is for safety - jaskier is a sex slave in this fic but everything between he and geralt is completely consensual and discussed.
> 
> in my head the queen turned into calanthe but that's of no consequence because she's literally just a device to enable porn.

“Now, come, Witcher, I really must _insist._ ”

Geralt grit his teeth. He was tiring of the complicated back-and-forth of talking to royalty, the way he had to choose his words carefully so that absolutely nothing could be misconstrued. His body ached and he was still covered in ghoul blood. The last place he wanted to be was the Queen’s private rooms.

The Queen herself was still smiling. Her expression was a sharp, shrewd thing, glittering grin or not; her eyes were like cold steel, trained not on Geralt’s own eyes but somewhere slightly above. It was meant to make him uncomfortable, and it did; he could see straight through the façade being presented. He wasn’t going to be able to get out of this.

Fuck. He sighed.

“Of course,” he finally conceded, inclining his head in place of a bow. “I thank you again for your generosity, Your Majesty.”

The Queen’s smile widened, the expression much more genuine now that she’d gotten her way, and she clapped. “Wonderful! Then it’s decided. You’ll stay the week in the castle, and my _lovely_ Dandelion will be your personal servant for your time here.”

She gestured toward the group of young men lounging around her throne. It was a quick movement, but Geralt noticed that it was not a general one – there was something specific about it. He’d seen it before, in other courts with…arrangements like this, and in brothels. He didn’t bother trying to interpret what it meant. If he needed to know, he’d have been told, and he was too tired to be dealing with this at all, much less learning the inner workings of it.

“Dandelion, my darling, if you would show our Witcher to his rooms. I’ll trust you’ll be able to see to his needs?” The look she gave Dandelion was as sharp as a blade and just as likely to cut. The man, who looked barely out of boyhood, nodded and gave a graceful bow. Geralt bit back a growl. He hated double-meant words, and even more, he hated when people in power took advantage of those too young and needy to say no.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Dandelion’s voice was perfectly even, a cheerful tone that belied the stoic look on his face.

The Queen nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good, good. On with you now, both of you.”

Dandelion approached Geralt on light, quick feet. Up close, he was nearly the same height as Geralt, though there was something about his demeanor that made him seem smaller, more delicate. His eyes were wide and blue, and now that he wasn’t facing the Queen, the stoic expression had been replaced with a small smirk. His eyes sparkled with mischief, only making Geralt truly wonder how old he was.

“Witcher,” he greeted, still in that cheerful tone. It matched better with the impish look on his face. He gave Geralt the same graceful bow he gave the Queen.

Geralt schooled his expression so he wouldn’t scowl. It wasn’t this boy he had a problem with.

He grunts out, “Please call me Geralt,” and Dandelion’s smirk grows wider.

“Of course,” he says. He inclines his head toward the door. “Shall we, Geralt?”

Geralt glances just past his shoulder to see the Queen no longer paying them any attention, another one of the young men in her lap now. He represses another urge to growl. “Please.”

* * *

The walk to Geralt’s chambers is quiet. Dandelion is humming to himself, an aimless, seemingly made-up tune. He stays slightly ahead of Geralt, just as light on his feet as he was in the Queen’s glorified brothel.

“I’m not going to fuck you.” He breaks the silence as they reach the doors to his rooms. It’s blunt, but he always is, and he’d rather they didn’t have any misunderstandings.

Dandelion snorts. “I figured as much from the upset look on your face,” he says. “But I’m still your personal servant for your stay, Geralt, so what _do_ you want to do?”

Geralt frowns. “I want to take a bath,” he answers, honestly.

Dandelion nods. “I can help with that. Here, get undressed. I’ll send your things to be cleaned and meet you in the washroom.”

Geralt hesitates. Dandelion raises one eyebrow.

“How old are you, Dandelion?”

The other man – boy? – looks taken aback for a split second before he snorts again. “It doesn’t much matter, Geralt. You know what purpose I serve in the Queen’s court.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “It matters to me.”

He doesn’t want to be anything like the Queen. He doesn’t want to be like any of the royalty or nobility he’s met in the last two weeks as he’s taken out a city-wide ghoul infestation.

Dandelion huffs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m of age,” he says. “Nineteen, because I’m sure you’ll insist.”

Geralt wants to ask how long he’s been one of the Queen’s playthings. He thinks better of it. Instead, he just nods and begins stripping off his weapons, armor, and clothes. Dandelion takes the pile from his hands, heedless of the foul-smelling blood still dripping in some places and shoos Geralt toward the washroom. Geralt goes.

Barely two minutes later Dandelion sweeps in after him, and, ignoring Geralt standing in the middle of the room like a statue, sets to preparing a bath. Geralt watches in fascination that’s only partly over the terribly inventive technology in the room.

Stunningly quick, Dandelion has the bath drawn. “Well, come on,” he says, gesturing toward the steaming water. “Extra hot, since you’re a Witcher and all. You’re much too tense for a regular temperature.”

Geralt blinks, and Dandelion grins. “Well, get in.”

Geralt does as he’s told, again. The water _is_ hot – enough to scald, if he was a normal man. The perfect temperature to force Geralt’s muscles to release at least a little.

Dandelion is humming that same, aimless tune from before. Geralt watches him silently as he wanders around the washroom, gathering little bottles. He returns to the edge of the bath quickly enough, standing behind Geralt.

“Tip your head – yes, back, like that.” Dandelion is grinning when Geralt’s eyes find his face again. “When was the last time you washed your hair, Geralt?”

Geralt chews on the inside of his lip. “Before the ghouls,” he says, finally.

Dandelion laughs. “Entirely too long, then.”

Without any further explanation, Dandelion uses a small pitcher to his side to scoop up some of the bath water and pour it over Geralt’s head. It stings a little on his scalp, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he watches Dandelion.

He really is rather handsome; Geralt can see why the Queen, well, _keeps_ him, as it is. His eyes are a stunning shade of blue, and his face is sculpted, but still roundish and soft-looking. His hair looks just as soft as his skin.

“Relax, Geralt,” Dandelion says, softly. Geralt blinks.

“I am relaxed.”

Dandelion laughs again, and it’s nearly contagious. Geralt feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “If this is you relaxed, Geralt, then I would hate to see you really tense.”

Geralt opens his mouth to retort but finds he doesn’t have anything to say. He closes his mouth again and then his eyes as well, just to get away from the smirk on Dandelion’s lips. It’s making him feel strange, and he doesn’t like it. Dandelion is apparently okay with Geralt tuning him out, and just continues with cleaning Geralt’s hair.

Time seems to stretch and pull, like taffy. Geralt slowly gets more and more limp as Dandelion scrubs weeks of dirt and blood out of his hair, and then when he stays and just plays with the damp strands. There’s no sounds except water lapping at the edge of the tub and Dandelion’s quiet humming, a new tune now.

Eventually, Dandelion pulls away from his hair. Geralt blinks up at the ceiling slowly, realizing that he’s been more or less entirely unaware of the world around him. He frowns. He’s never that reckless.

“Would you like any further assistance, or is helping you bathe too much?” There’s no judgement in Dandelion’s voice. Geralt feels as if the other man should feel slighted by Geralt’s stated non-interest, but if Dandelion is offended, he’s hiding it very well.

Geralt thinks on it a moment. “I’ll take the help.”

Dandelion grins and goes to gather some more little bottles.

* * *

“You’re still incredibly tense,” Dandelion says as Geralt is drying off.

Geralt shrugs. “I’m not.”

Dandelion helping him bathe had been both more intimate than it should have been and less intimate than Geralt expected. It left him feeling slightly unsettled. He finishes drying and ties the towel around his waist. Dandelion is…well, staring, rather blatantly, but Geralt knows if he points it out that Dandelion won’t be embarrassed. He also won’t stop doing it, for that matter, so Geralt keeps his thoughts to himself.

“I’m rather good at massages,” Dandelion announces. “There are some clothes on the bed.”

Geralt huffs and heads toward the bedroom. “I’m sure you’d require me to stay naked for a massage,” he says. It’s not as biting as it’s supposed to be.

Dandelion laughs. “Well, it would certainly be more enjoyable that way, but no. If you don’t want to be naked, I can give just as good of a massage with you dressed. It’s up to you.”

Geralt frowns at the clothes in front of him – they’re simple, plain cotton, definitely meant to be slept in, and they’re not what he’s frowning about. His nose itches.

“Do you have any oil that doesn’t have such a strong scent?” he asks, sweeping the clothes out of his way and sitting on the bed. “The bath was a little overwhelming.”

Dandelion sucks in a breath and his eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Geralt shrugs. He doesn’t really have an answer for why he didn’t. Because he never has? Because he enjoyed the attention?

Dandelion shakes his head. “Gods, I didn’t even think about it. You can smell so much better than me, I’m sorry. I do have oils that aren’t so strong.”

Geralt nods and stretches out on the bed, face-down. “Go get them, then.”

Dandelion makes a small noise – shock or excitement or something else, Geralt doesn’t know. In a few moments, the bed is shifting as Dandelion climbs onto it with him.

“Can I straddle you?”

“Yes.”

Dandelion does. Geralt can feel the way he tenses his thighs to keep himself elevated, so he’s not resting weight on Geralt’s thighs. Geralt closes his eyes and tries to release any tension he’s holding; he doesn’t feel like he is, but Dandelion insists that he’s so tense. He wonders if maybe he’s just used to carrying a certain amount of stress in his body.

He can smell it when Dandelion opens the oil. It hardly smells like anything, and Geralt hums in appreciation. The bath was, as he’d said, overwhelming. He’d been distracted enough to not focus on it, but taken away from the room, his senses were in overdrive. When the oil hits his back, it’s already warm.

“Relax, Geralt,” Dandelion says, softly. He starts to hum again, something else new.

Surprisingly, Geralt feels himself doing exactly as he’s told. Dandelion’s hands are soft and blazing hot, working the oil across his back and digging with perfect pressure into the knotted muscles at his shoulders and down his spine. Geralt can’t really help the small noises he starts to make – little sighs and grunts, barely audible, really, but Dandelion is very close to him. The other man smells of satisfaction.

It’s a long time, or maybe short – time is pulling again – when Dandelion shifts back and tugs a little at the towel still tied around Geralt’s waist.

“May I?” he asks.

Geralt thinks he should say no, but he doesn’t. “Yes,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, nearly a growl, but a lazy one. Dandelion chuckles and pulls at the towel until it unwinds and he can put it aside.

The massage starts up again at his feet. He flinches a little, the touch just light enough to tickle despite his callouses, but Dandelion takes it in stride. His touches become firmer, almost hard enough to hurt, but not quite. Perfect, really. Geralt wonders, for a split second, where Dandelion picked up this talent. He realizes just as quickly that he doesn’t really want to know.

Nineteen. He’s of age, yes, but still so young. Especially compared to Geralt.

Dandelion’s travel up his legs is faster than his back. Before Geralt even knows it, the man is framing his ass with soft hands.

“If I may?” he asks, quietly. “You can say no.”

Geralt swallows and closes his eyes, as if that will let him escape his own depraved brain. “You may,” he murmurs, just as quietly. Dandelion makes quick work of it, but still the sensation of his hands on Geralt’s ass settles into Geralt’s stomach, make his cock twitch.

“Would you like me to do the front, too?” Dandelion asks.

Geralt huffs. “I…don’t think you should,” he says, instead of the plain _no_ he’d intended.

Dandelion chuckles, a short, sharp sound. “It’s perfectly normal,” he says. Of course he knows why Geralt would hesitate. Geralt’s gut burns with shame. “It’s okay, Geralt. If you’d rather not, that’s fine. If you would like the massage, then I will provide it. I won’t take the uncontrollable reactions of your body as an invitation, I swear it.”

Geralt takes a slightly shaky breath and slowly rolls over on the bed. Dandelion is kneeling on the side of the very soft mattress, and his eyes don’t stray from Geralt’s at all, once they meet.

“Forgive me for how rude this is going to sound,” Geralt starts, roughly. He clears his throat and continues, “but you seem very serious about consent for…well, your…occupation?” He doesn’t mean to make it a question, but he has no idea how Dandelion thinks of his place in the Queen’s escort.

Dandelion snorts, and it’s not a sound with any humor. “Forgive _me_ for being blunt, but _my_ consent isn’t a part of this equation. Only yours is. It’s the same with anyone the Queen has me…tend to, as it is. And of course it’s the case for the Queen.”

Geralt clenches his fists and tries to ignore the fire of anger that lights just under his skin. “Of…of course,” he forces out. “I…. I am sorry that I said anything.”

Dandelion rolls his eyes, and his shoulders release their tension. “It’s hardly anything, Geralt,” he says. “I don’t blame you. Most are shocked by it, though no one else has ever brought it up so blatantly.”

Geralt flushes. Dandelion doesn’t mention it.

“I’ll start at your feet, if that’s acceptable?”

Geralt just nods, not trusting his voice, and closes his eyes. He tries to pretend that he’s not aware of his cock, how it’s almost completely hard, twitching against his thigh. Dandelion seems to be doing a fine job of ignoring it. There’s no reason Geralt can’t also pretend.

The massage is just as good, though, and while Geralt’s erection doesn’t flag, he he’s practically boneless by the time Dandelion’s hands are on his collarbones, the touch much gentler but no less wonderful.

“There,” Dandelion says finally, and Geralt realizes he’s been dozing off. “ _Now_ you seem relaxed.”

Geralt blinks sleepily up at him, caught for a moment breathless when he sees how wide Dandelion’s pupils are, how his lip is swollen from biting it. He takes a deep breath, smells the oils from the bath and the massage, but also – buttercups, and lavender, and lemon. And lust. Geralt swallows.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I suppose we should turn in for the night.”

Dandelion blinks at him for a moment, eyes travelling a path down Geralt’s body one last time, but he nods.

“Of course. There’s a room just next door,” Dandelion gestures to the right of the door to the room their in. “That’s where I’ll be sleeping, to give you your privacy. Like you wanted. If you need anything, please come get me.”

Geralt nods, and Dandelion gets off the bed, but stops at the end. “I’m serious, Geralt. I want to help you with whatever you need, but also, if you go to any of the other servants for anything first, the Queen will have my head.”

Geralt swallows again, more to hold back his reaction to the matter-of-fact tone Dandelion takes with that information, and nods. “I promise, I’ll go to you first with anything I need,” he says.

Dandelion smiles, bright and wide. “Good. I’ll come wake you for breakfast in the morning.”

Geralt just nods again and watches him slip out of the door.

He lays on the bed, naked and hard, for a long time after Dandelion is gone.

* * *

It’s late when Dandelion wakes him.

“Breakfast is ready,” he says brightly. “Your clothes are here, or another outfit, courtesy of the Queen, if you’d prefer.”

“It’s practically lunch,” Geralt mumbles, but he gets up. He strips out of the sleepclothes from the night before. “Will we be dining with the Queen?”

“Consider it brunch if it makes you feel better,” Dandelion grins. “And no. The Queen has a prior engagement and is out of the castle at the moment. It’ll just be you and me this morning.”

Geralt hums and picks up his own clothes. He puts everything on except the armor, deciding to leave it, but he does put on the belt that carries a dagger. Dandelion doesn’t say anything about his choice, merely gesturing toward the door.

The walk to the dining hall is as quiet as their walk from the queen’s chambers the night before. That is to say, it’s silent except for Dandelion’s humming. Yet another different tune. Geralt wonders how many the man knows.

There is already food on the table when they arrived, but it’s still hot. Dandelion gestured to the chair Geralt should sit at. Dandelion’s portion was much smaller, and Geralt made a questioning noise.

“Oh, I ate some when I woke at dawn,” Dandelion explains. “Some duties to attend to, so I had some meat and cheese.” He gestures to his plate currently, and it’s mostly bread and fruit.

Geralt just nods and digs into his own breakfast.

They eat in comfortable silence, though Dandelion finishes his meal first. He doesn’t seem to mind waiting for Geralt, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed, a small smile on his lips while he hums.

“What is that tune?” Geralt asks, after he’s washed his last bite of bread down.

Dandelion opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Geralt. “It’s…just a tune,” he shrugs, “I made it up.”

Geralt hums. “It’s nice.”

“Thank you.” Dandelion grins. “Well, Geralt, what should we do for the time the Queen is gone? Since I’m sure she’ll have something for you to do once she gets back.”

Geralt sighs. “I’m sure.” He thinks for a moment, then – “Do you play Gwent?”

Dandelion’s grin gets wider. “Why yes, I do.”

“Let’s go back to my room and play, then,” Geralt says, nodding to himself as he stands. “If you’re willing?”

“Of course,” Dandelion stands and starts toward the hall. Geralt, though, hesitates.

“Dandelion?”

He turns where he’s at the door. “Yes, Geralt?”

“I…. If you want to say no to me, you can.”

Dandelion’s grin fades into a serious expression. “I can’t, Geralt. The Queen would be furious.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, I – the Queen doesn’t have to know.”

“She knows everything, Geralt.”

“She thinks she does,” Geralt says. He shakes his head. “She’s mistaken.”

Dandelion shifts from foot to foot, a quick movement that only barely looks nervous.

“Let’s discuss this in your room, Geralt,” he says finally. “Please?

“Of course.” Geralt follows him.

The walk is tense, now, and completely silent; Dandelion isn’t humming. Geralt ignores the way the hair on the back of his neck prickles, and resists the urge to rub at his nape. They arrive at his room quickly, and Dandelion ushers him in with a sort of urgency.

Once the door is closed and locked, Dandelion seems to relax a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The communal spaces here have ears.”

Geralt nods. “I understand.”

Dandelion shook his head. “No, Geralt, you don’t. The Queen is…dangerous, especially to those she considers her property.”

Geralt clenches his fists. It doesn’t escape Dandelion’s notice.

He sighs. “Geralt, I….”

“Just me,” Geralt says. “I just – if you want to say no to me, for anything, while I’m here, I want you to. If the Queen finds out, if she wants to punish you – you’re doing exactly what I want you to, Dandelion. Is that not what she wants most? For you to…serve me…in whatever way I see fit?”

Dandelion chews on his lip for a moment. “Yes, it is.”

“Then that’s what I want. I want you to be…a person, not…not a slave.”

Dandelion sucks in a breath. “O – of course, Geralt.”

Geralt takes a deep breath to calm himself more. “Do you want to play Gwent?” he asks again.

Dandelion’s smile comes back, a little slowly, but still there. “Yes, Geralt,” he says, and the twinkle in his eyes tells Geralt that he really does.

They play several rounds of Gwent. Dandelion turns out to be wicked smart, good at strategy; they tie, as far as wins and losses, by the time the Queen has returned and wants Geralt’s attention.

“I’ll come with,” Dandelion says. “But – I’m to be seen, not heard. You understand?”

Geralt nods. “Yes, I do.”

“If you ask me to do anything while we’re with the Queen,” Dandelion takes a deep breath, “what we discussed is null. At least in her sight.”

Geralt grits his teeth. He doesn’t like it, hates it in fact, but he reels himself in. “Yes, I know. I understand.”

Dandelion blows his breath out in relief. “Thank you, Geralt. Now, come, before we’re late.”

* * *

The following days pass slowly, but comfortably enough. His mornings are spent with Dandelion, playing cards or board games or wandering the castle. Dandelion starts to talk about music, over the time, telling Geralt about the instruments he can play, the songs he’s written. Geralt listens intently, enthralled by the joy that overcomes Dandelion’s face when he rambles.

On the fourth day, after Geralt has returned from an exhausting dinner where he was forced to recount tales of his life for the Queen and her Lords’ amusement, Dandelion is waiting for him with oils on the bed.

“Strip and lie down,” Dandelion says. It’s not an order, but Geralt takes it as one and does as he’s told.

The massage is just as relaxing as it was before. Geralt’s gut still burns with shame when he rolls over to reveal his erection, but Dandelion just chews his lip and continues, just like before.

He stays sitting above Geralt for a long time, though. Geralt can’t seem to find the words to suggest they should go bed, that Dandelion should return to his room.

“Geralt,” Dandelion whispers, something in his voice that makes Geralt’s entire body ache in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

“Dandelion,” Geralt murmurs back.

The man sighs and clambers off the bed, running a hand through his hair. Geralt rolls to watch him, but stays quiet.

After several minutes of Dandelion pacing, though, Geralt decides he has to speak.

“You should get some sleep, Dandelion,” he says, softly. “In your room.”

Dandelion stops and his eyes are fierce when he turns to look at Geralt. “ _No,_ ” he says, with conviction. Geralt flinches.

It’s the first time Dandelion has said it.

“To what?” Geralt asks, once he’s recovered from the slight shock of hearing it. “The sleep, or going to your room?”

Dandelion suddenly looks nervous. “…going to my room.”

“What would you like instead?”

The other man turns away, pacing again for a moment. He then whirls around and climbs back onto the bed, pressing close, until they’re almost touching.

“Here,” he says. “I want…. I want to sleep in your bed, Geralt. I know you don’t want to…use me, like the Queen expects. But I want….”

Dandelion stops. Geralt inhales his scent greedily, trying to be discreet, and murmurs, “What do you want?”

“I want to be close to you.”

Geralt nods. “Of course, Dandelion.”

Dandelion reels back as if he’s been struck, eyes wide.

“Really?”

Geralt sits up slowly, keeping the distance between them. “Yes, Dandelion. You can sleep in my bed tonight. I do ask that we remain clothed, though.”

Dandelion gave a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Yes, of course, Geralt, whatever makes you comfortable – I – thank you.”

Geralt smiles, and he hopes it’s not as transparent as it feels. “No, Dandelion. Thank _you_.”

Dandelion doesn’t reply to that, but Geralt sees the tears sparkling in his eyes.

Geralt sleeps better that night than any previous. In his life, not just in the castle; and isn’t that just the worst part of it.

* * *

The sixth day of his extended stay at the castle dawns bright and early and frigidly cold.

Geralt stumbles out of bed to relight the fire in the hearth, but there’s no wood left. He huffs.

Dandelion, sitting up in the bed, squints at him. “Damnit,” he mumbles. “A bath would be faster, to get warm,” he says. “I can get one of the other servants to bring wood.”

Geralt looks over to him. His hair is mussed, and his clothes even more so; his eyes are still half-shut, eyelids drooping with residual sleep, and his cheeks and nose are pink from the cold.

“Alright,” Geralt agrees. “A bath first, and then more wood.”

Dandelion seems to wake up a little more at that, sitting up.

“Are you…suggesting we share the bath?” he asks, and Geralt wonders if anyone else would be able to pinpoint the tremor in the other man’s voice.

“Yes,” Geralt says, simply, and leaves it at that. He heads toward the washroom.

Dandelion joins him quickly, still rumpled from the bed, but wide awake now, eyes bright.

Geralt can’t even pretend that his fascinated staring has anything to do with the damn bath, this time.

Dandelion disappears and comes back with his little bottles again. “Less smelly ones, this time,” he says. “Here, you can make sure they’re okay.”

Geralt takes the bottles he’s handed, uncorked, and sniffs at them. They’re all subtle. He nods and hands them back. Dandelion beams and finishes preparing the bath, then strips himself down and climbs in. Geralt forces himself to walk forward, to strip his own clothes, and sink into the steaming water. It takes quite more of his self-control than it should for him to do that instead of blatantly staring.

For a long time, they just sit in silence, relaxing into the water. Dandelion has his eyes closed, has his head tipped back against the edge of the basin. Geralt is watching him, feeling guilty but unable to stop.

Finally, Dandelion sits up and smiles when he finds Geralt’s eyes on him. “I supposed we may as well bathe properly,” he says.

“Can I wash you?” tumbles out of Geralt’s mouth, and Dandelion’s eyes go wide. Geralt begins to backtrack, panicked, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for – ”

“No, absolutely not uncalled for,” Dandelion breathes. “I would love if you washed me, Geralt. But only if I can return the favor.”

Geralt takes a deep breath to calm his illogically speeding heart. “Of course, Dandelion. Please.”

The process of washing one another is, like before, when Dandelion washed him, both more intimate and less intimate all at once. It still leaves Geralt feeling unsettled, but he thinks he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Nonetheless, he is attentive; he washes every inch of Dandelion he possibly can without crossing their – his – mostly unspoken line. Between his toes, behind his ears. Dandelion giggles, but allows the treatment, a soft smile on his face that Geralt can’t make himself look at for longer than a few seconds at a time.

When it’s Dandelion’s turn, he does the same to Geralt. An overly thorough washing that leaves Geralt’s head spinning with everything inside it, and the feeling in his gut, his chest. They don’t speak; Dandelion just hums. Geralt finds himself humming a long, this tune having become familiar in the last six days. It makes Dandelion smile even wider.

“I think we’re acceptably clean,” Dandelion says, after a long time of playing with Geralt’s hair. Geralt grunts and nods, feeling as if he’s pulling himself through mud to stand, his body is so heavy and relaxed. Dandelion laughs and begins to pat him dry without asking.

Geralt is shocked to find that he doesn’t mind at all. He dries Dandelion off, too.

By the time they’re dressed for the day, the sun through the windows has warmed the room to an acceptable temperature, and breakfast is ready. Breakfast is with the Queen today.

Geralt watches as Dandelion’s demeanor changes, a mask coming down like the clang of a castle gate, just as they leave his room. He keep his expression neutral, doesn’t react outwardly, and smiles, small and private, when Dandelion looks at him.

It’s necessary, and he knows. He knows very well, by now; he’s seen nothing, but rumors abound in a castle full of servants and disgruntled royalty. The things he’s heard make him hate the Queen in a way he’s hated very few people in his life.

At this point, it’s very easy to slip into the song and dance required to interact with the Queen. Force of habit, he figures. Though he can tell she’s frustrated with him; he doesn’t know why, exactly, but it could be a myriad of things.

Dandelion is convinced it’s because Geralt ‘won’t play with the toy she gave him’. He refuses to humor Dandelion’s musings, hating that he calls himself a toy.

Breakfast is a boring, muted affair. There’s only Geralt, Dandelion, the Queen, and her current consort at the table. The young princess and heir to the Queen’s kingdom has been off at boarding school the entire time Geralt has been here, and he’s never met her. The conversation is stilted and colorless, the Queen obviously bored and frustrated by Geralt’s company. Nonetheless, they all remain at the table until the Queen excuses them.

Geralt and Dandelion return to Geralt’s room for lack of anything else interesting to do. They laze around, chatting idly, but nothing more. Geralt finds that, as much as he should be bored and stir crazy, he’s not. He has their lunch brought to them instead of going back out of the room to get it, and he and Dandelion eat in comfortable silence.

“I…want to take a nap,” Dandelion announces, once he’s finished his lunch. “Would that be alright?”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes. I might join you, in fact.”

He ends up doing just that.

They’re woken by another servant, who comes with elaborate outfits for both of them and instructions from the Queen to bathe and dress, then be at the dining hall at eight o’clock sharp.

Geralt groans and grumbles but does as he’s been instructed, shaking Dandelion awake to do the same.

“Can we share the bath again?”

Geralt smiles. “Yes.”

So they do. This time it’s much lazier – they’re hardly dirty after a day of lounging and a nap. The oils are stronger, this time, because Dandelion insists that the Queen will be offended if they don’t use the right ones. Geralt defers to his knowledge but wrinkles his nose at the tumult of smells.

Dandelion begins to sink backwards, dozing, when Geralt takes his own time to play with the man’s hair. Geralt lets it happen, despite his misgivings. He lets Dandelion slowly sink into his chest, until they’re pressed together, back-to-front, from hips to shoulders. Dandelion is essentially sitting in his lap.

He wakes rather quickly, at that. Geralt keeps his hands in Dandelion’s hair, simply waiting, hoping his rabbit-quick heart isn’t obvious through where they’re touching.

“Geralt,” Dandelion breathes, and tips his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder. It forces Geralt’s hands out of his hair, and they land naturally on his collarbones, without any input from Geralt.

They both take a breath.

“Geralt,” Dandelion repeats after a small eternity, “I have a question.”

“Hmm?” Geralt can’t help but softly stroke his thumbs across the protruding bone under his hands. Dandelion shivers.

“At the beginning, when you finally agreed to the Queens requests,” Dandelion takes a shuddering breath, “you said you wouldn’t fuck me. What I want to know is…why? Is it that you don’t want to? Or….”

Geralt bites his lip bloody and drops his head to Dandelion’s shoulder. “Dandelion.”

“Please, Geralt, I just want to know.”

“You…would not believe the things I want to do to you,” Geralt murmurs, directly into the skin of Dandelion’s throat. “I did not want to entertain the Queen’s sick fantasies, did not want to take advantage of you. In any way.”

Dandelion makes a soft, broken noise, and turns his face into Geralt’s neck. “Geralt,” he whispers. “I – if I told you that you have my full, knowing consent….”

Geralt bites back a growl, turns it into a chaste kiss pressed to Dandelion’s shoulder below his lips. “We don’t have the time.”

“Tonight,” Dandelion gasps. “Tonight, then, after the Queen’s showy dinner. Please.”

“Tonight,” Geralt promises.

Dandelion makes that same broken noise and turns in Geralt’s arms, splashing water everywhere.

“Just a kiss,” he says, begging clear in his tone. “A kiss, to tide me over, so I don’t go insane having to play the obedient servant and whore. Please, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t even speak, just grabs Dandelion’s face, gently, and presses their lips together. It’s only chaste for a moment before Dandelion demands more, tongue and teeth. Geralt gives in like a rotted wooden beam under the weight of the tide.

They kiss for long, sweet moments. Dandelion keeps making the sweetest noises, right into Geralt’s mouth, like he’s in ecstasy from this alone, little whines and whimpers. Geralt can no longer hold back his growls, the rumbling in his chest nearly a purr. The kiss is deep and messy, slick and full of teeth nipping at lips and tongues. After an eternity, or maybe mere seconds, Dandelion pulls away with a rattling gasp and shoves himself clear across the tub, to the other side.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If I didn’t – ”

Geralt nods. “I know. We should get dressed.”

Dandelion nods and gets out of the tub. Geralt lets himself stare at where the other man is hard, erection bobbing in front of him. He’s no better off, and getting dressed will be hell if they can’t calm down, but for the moment he enjoys the show. Dandelion flushes red but doesn’t cover himself.

Geralt finally gets out of the tub and dries himself off after Dandelion has left the washroom. They get dressed together, but in silence. Dandelion helps Geralt with his clothes but is careful not to touch him, not really. One wrong move and they won’t make it to the Queen’s dinner, and that will be a disaster no one wants to deal with.

Once they’re presentable, and both smelling noxiously of flowers, Dandelion leads the way to the dining hall. They arrive seconds before a clock in the distance chimes eight, and the Queen fixes them with a look that says they’re on thin ice.

Geralt gives the deepest, most apologetic bow he’s ever given or ever will. The Queen looks somewhat appeased, at least.

The dinner is fancy, and definitely a show. All of the local lords and royalty are present, and Geralt must tread carefully as many of them want to speak to him. He cannot offend anyone, especially under the Queen’s watchful eye.

Both because he wants to live, and also because he doesn’t want to be kept from his bed for a single second longer than necessary after dinner.

An hour and two courses into the dinner, Geralt is beginning to fidget. He uses the energy to stand and walk around the table, grabbing a new carafe of wine to bring to the Lord sitting on his right. Dandelion is on his left, looking exactly as he should: an obedient servant, easy on the eyes, and readily available at the word of the Queen.

Geralt’s stomach nearly revolts. He swallows a large gulp of wine and happily pours more for the Lord. The Queen nods approvingly.

The third and fourth courses go swimmingly, minus a small mishap where Geralt spills gravy on a servant passing by. It’s on purpose; the girl looks ready to faint, and the gravy gives her an excuse to leave, but of course Geralt must act as if it’s the most offensive accident he’s ever been involved in.

The Queen and the Lords all accept his act. Dandelion is clearly hiding a smirk behind his wine glass when Geralt glances at him from the corner of his eye. Careful to make sure that no one sees, he jabs a finger into Dandelion’s thigh.

Dandelion just raises a brow. Geralt hides his expression behind his own glass.

Dessert is delicious, as was all of the food, but Geralt is practically vibrating with the want to get out of the dining hall and into a bed with Dandelion by the time it comes. At this point, half the Lords are drunk, and the other half are on their way. The Queen’s eyes are tight, like she wants this to end as much as Geralt does, though it’s for very, very different reasons.

At least, Geralt hopes it is. His ardor is dampened a bit by the thought of what – or who – the Queen will be doing after this. He pushes the thought away in favor of drinking more wine.

Finally, they’re excused. Geralt manages to maintain his decorum until they’re halfway between the dining hall and his room, and then he’s grabbing Dandelion’s hand and practically running. Dandelion just laughs and goes along, squeezing Geralt’s hand the whole way.

Geralt tugs him through the door and then uses their combined weight to slam it shut. He locks it with a fumbling hand and then they’re kissing, even more desperate than before. Dandelion is still making those sweet, broken noises into Geralt’s mouth, his hands scrabbling for purchase over Geralt’s shoulders and back. Geralt just pushes him harder against the door, leaving fingerprint bruises along his hips.

“Too many fucking clothes,” Dandelion manages to gasp when the kiss breaks for a moment. Geralt just moves down his jaw with wet, open-mouthed kisses that make Dandelion shudder in his arms. “Geralt, _please._ ”

Geralt forces himself back, off of Dandelion’s body and toward the bed, pulling at the buttons and clasps on his shirt. After a moment of fumbling, he gives up, simply ripping the offending garment down the seam and tossing it to the side. Dandelion, still leaning against the door and panting wildly, whimpers at the sight and starts pulling at his own clothes.

After a few minutes they’re both stripped, stumbling almost as one to the bed. They land diagonally across the overlarge mattress, Dandelion on his back and Geralt slotted perfectly between his legs.

“Tell me,” Dandelion demands, “tell me what you want to do to me.”

Geralt groans and sets his teeth into the curve of Dandelion’s shoulder. Dandelion laughs, a rough, feral thing, and pulls at Geralt’s hair. Geralt looses another groan, deeper this time, and really bites.

“Geralt,” Dandelion says, and now his voice is breathy, still demanding but softer. “I-in the bath, you said, ‘you would not believe the things I want to do to you’. Tell me, tell me everything. _Please._ ”

Geralt takes a shuddering breath and presses kisses and bites up to Dandelion’s ear, reveling in the way the other man shudders and whines beneath him. “I want…to taste you,” he starts, closing his eyes and resting a little more of his weight over Dandelion’s body. “Everywhere. I want to know if you smell the same between your legs as you do at your throat,” Geralt pointedly bites at the curve of Dandelion’s jaw, “I want to make you really sing, on my tongue, on my fingers, on my cock.”

Dandelion is shivering, hips rocking up against Geralt’s mindlessly. “Geralt, Geralt, _fuck_ ,” he whimpers, turning and pressing a sloppy kiss to the edge of Geralt’s jaw. “Please, please – wh-whatever you want, I want, please – ”

“Dandelion.” Geralt growls the word, deep and quiet and predatory. Dandelion arches closer, presses their bodies even tighter together, but he’s still mumbling, incoherent until finally –

“Not – not right, not Dandelion – ”

Geralt hums and kisses a path from his ear to his mouth, hovering there close enough to share breath. “What is your name, little lark?”

Dandelion’s breath hitches to a stop, then returns on the tail end of a weak whimper and he whispers, “Jaskier.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles, right against the other man’s mouth, and kisses him. Jaskier jolts, and Geralt feels where his cock twitches and pulses out precum.

He repeats it when they part for breath, softly, “Jaskier, little lark,” and gets the same reaction. He indulges in one more deep kiss before he pulls away, instead trailing kisses down Jaskier’s throat, to his chest, his belly. Jaskier is shaking again, but he pushes up onto his elbows, dark eyes trained on Geralt.

“Alright?” Geralt asks, hovering over Jaskier’s erection, mouth inches from the slick head.

Jaskier nods and pants out, “Please, Geralt.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He swipes his tongue slowly over the weeping head of Jaskier’s cock, precum bittersweet and salty, then sucks the head into his mouth. Jaskier throws his head back and whines.

Geralt closes his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose. Buttercups, lavender, lemon; musk and sweat and arousal, lust so strong it nearly drowns out every other scent. He hums in place of a growl and sinks down, wriggling the tip of his tongue along the pulsing veins, listening to the way that Jaskier pants and groans above him. Slowly, slowly, savoring the taste and smell and feel of him, Geralt moves down until Jaskier is threating the clutch of his throat, and then, with a deep breath, past it.

Jaskier _keens_ , elbows going out so he falls flat on his back, one hand shooting forward to grip Geralt’s hair just enough to sting.

Geralt groans around the heavy flesh in his mouth and Jaskier keens again.

“Geralt, Geralt, oh – oh, f-fuck, you’re – that’s – _fuck_ ,” Jaskier babbles as Geralt pulls back, then pushes back down again, and again, hollowing his cheeks on the upstroke and groaning on the down. After a few moments, Jaskier starts to tug on Geralt’s hair in the same rhythm, and Geralt’s eyes roll back. He loses himself to it, for a moment, going loose and letting Jaskier push and pull him.

Eventually, though, Jaskier pulls him off and grasps at the base of his cock, muttering, “Too close, too close.” He manages to lean back up on one elbow to look down his body at Geralt, their eyes meeting.

“Gods, you’re stunning,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt thinks he might actually be blushing. His pupils dilate just a little more, his vision sharpening and making the light around the edges of the room too-bright and blurry.

“I want to eat you out,” Geralt says, without preamble or thought. Jaskier groans and collapses backward again, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You will be the death of me, Geralt,” he says, but there’s only the heat of lust and longing in his voice. Geralt shoves the spread of his thighs wider, and Jaskier tilts his hips up without instruction.

Geralt growls, half-pleased and half-jealous of every experience that Jaskier has had before now. He wants to know about them all, but now is not the time. Instead, he dives in, licking a broad stripe from Jaskier’s furled entrance to his balls, and then back down. Teasing little flicks of his tongue against the muscle make Jaskier gasp and jerk, and long, sloppy licks make him whimper. Geralt alternates between them for a long moment, fingers digging bruises into Jaskier’s thighs, until he’s begging.

“Please – p-please, Geralt, I – oh, oh fuck, your _mouth_ – I n-nee… _oooh,_ I need _more._ Please!”

Pressing closer, Geralt points his tongue until he can wedge it just inside the softened, fluttering rim. Jaskier keens, muscles in his thighs jumping, and Geralt pushes harder, wriggling his tongue as deep as he can get it. The jumping muscle turns into proper trembling, then, and Geralt hears a seam rip somewhere nearby.

“Fuck fuck fuck fffff _uuuuck,_ ” Jaskier gasps, seemingly out of any other words. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Geralt keeps going, ignoring the ache in his jaw and the mild lightheadedness from not being able to take a proper breath with his nose buried in Jaskier’s taint. He doesn’t mind either, and especially not the latter. Jaskier’s scent is so strong here and Geralt could absolutely die happy exactly where he is.

Jaskier’s hands find his hair again, tugging, pulling him away. He goes with the pull, not bothering to wipe up the mess of saliva on his face. Jaskier whines at the sight.

“Got,” he pants, petting over Geralt’s head, “got too close.”

Geralt swallows the excess saliva in his mouth. “How many times can you cum in one night?”

Jaskier blinks at him. “I – uh,” his face flushes positively scarlet and he looks away for a moment. “The – the most I’ve ever done was three.”

Geralt hums in acknowledgement and kisses along Jaskier’s thigh where it’s still half over his shoulder. “Then cum.”

He dives back in, not bothering to go slow. Jaskier makes a broken, nearly inhuman sound, and grips at Geralt’s hair tight enough to sting. Geralt makes a sort of purring noise, right against the rim of Jaskier’s hole, and Jaskier whimpers. A sharp jerk of his hips momentarily suffocates Geralt, but Geralt just stretches his tongue as far as he can, ignoring the pain.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier gasps. His thighs tighten, trapping Geralt between them. He purrs again. “Oh _gods,_ fuck, _Geralt!_ ”

Some of Geralt’s hair comes out at the root with Jaskier’s grip, but Geralt just groans, growling when he feels the tell-tale pulsing around his tongue. He doesn’t stop, keeps his face pressed as close as he can get it and his tongue as deep as it will go until Jaskier is panting and batting at his forehead softly. He leaves off with a gentle scrape of teeth against the loosened rim that makes Jaskier grunt.

Jaskier looks a mess when Geralt leans over him again. He’s panting, chest rising and falling rapidly with each gasped breath, and he’s red from the tips of his ears to his nipples. Cum is splattered from his hips to his throat. Geralt leans down and cleans off his throat, groaning low at the bitter taste on his tongue. Jaskier _squeaks,_ then moans, then uses a grip on Geralt’s hair to pull him into a filthy kiss.

“Oil,” Geralt manages to grit out between breath-stealing kisses. He tries to continue, to ask _where_ , but Jaskier’s hand is suddenly wrapped around his cock, grip tight, and the word turns into a growling moan.

Jaskier flicks his tongue out against Geralt’s lips and hums, stroking slowly. His hand is too dry, but even so it feels like some kind of revelation. Geralt’s elbow buckles, dropping part of his weight onto Jaskier’s chest, and he goes to apologize – if he can find any words in his head besides _fuck_ – but the other man just gives a breathy moan in response. So Geralt stays, mouthing distractedly at the bob of Jaskier’s adam’s apple.

“How many can you?” Jaskier asks. It takes Geralt a moment to piece together what he’s supposed to answer with.

He nips at Jaskier’s neck, then pulls back with a grin that bares his teeth. It’s probably closer to a snarl, but Jaskier doesn’t even flinch. “Six is when it starts to hurt.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen impossibly and he loses his breath on a disbelieving whine. “Really?”

Geralt nods and ducks back down to leave a claiming mark at Jaskier’s pulse point. “There are very few perks to being a Witcher,” he mutters, between stinging bites and soothing licks. Jaskier just whimpers and arches up, off the bed and into Geralt’s weight on his chest. “That’s one of them.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier breathes emphatically. Geralt just chuckles and leaves a final kiss over the purpling bruise on his throat.

“Oil,” he repeats.

Jaskier hums and gestures toward the bathroom. “In there. The best ones – for this, I mean – are in the green bottles.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier just shrugs and blushes. Geralt has to kiss him again, so he does. They lose another several, long minutes like that, just trading kisses back and forth. Finally, Jaskier pushes against his chest, eyes darker than ever, and gestures toward the washroom again.

“Oil.”

Geralt nods and levers himself off the bed, hurrying to the washroom and the cupboard where Jaskier has been getting his little bottles. He grabs a few green ones and smells them to check for strength – his nose itches still after that dinner – and finds a mild one that smells a little like lavender. It won’t be a distraction. When he gets back to the bedroom, Jaskier is slowly coaxing his cock back to hardness, eyes squeezed shut and mouth dropped open. Geralt stops and stares for a moment, taken over by how _pretty_ the other man is; he’s known from the moment that he saw him, in the Queen’s chambers, that he was attractive, but somehow, it’s different now.

“You’re stunning, little lark,” Geralt murmurs as he climbs back onto the bed. Jaskier gasps and his eyes fly open to look at Geralt.

“You’re one to talk, Geralt,” he says back, eyes trailing from Geralt’s own down to his erection bobbing in the air. Jaskier licks his lips, and Geralt shivers.

“Later,” he says, to Jaskier’s thoughts clear as day on his face. He holds out the little green bottle.

Jaskier scrambles around on the bed so that Geralt is bracketed by his slim legs again. His thighs are still spread wide, and he’s still red from his face to his chest. Streaked with dried spend and sprawled like this he looks like a painting of Geralt’s most debauched fantasies. Geralt can hardly stay away from that.

He avoids Jaskier’s mouth – mostly so he doesn’t get distracted – and instead scrapes his teeth ever so gently over the hardened peak of Jaskier’s nipple. That is rewarded with a gasp that’s half-whine, so Geralt does it again, then sucks the perky flesh into his mouth while he fumbles with the bottle of oil. He finally gets some into his palm and over his fingers as he kisses across Jaskier’s chest to the opposite nipple. Jaskier just pushes his chest closer to Geralt’s mouth and whimpers behind his teeth.

Once the oil is warm in his palm, Geralt presses one slick finger to Jaskier’s entrance, just massaging the little ring of muscle. Jaskier groans and jerks his hips closer, nearly taking the tip of Geralt’s finger inside. Geralt pulls back just a little, giving him a warning nip on his pec, and goes back to his gentle massaging.

Jaskier whines. “Geralt – please, _please,_ ” he begs. “I want more – I want _you,_ so much, gods – ”

Geralt leans up to kiss the breathless words from his mouth and pushes one finger inside, slow as molasses. Jaskier’s mouth goes slack against Geralt’s, and when Geralt looks, his eyes have rolled back.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt swears and bites at Jaskier’s collar, too hard, but Jaskier just whimpers and moves his hips, forward and back. Riding Geralt’s finger. “ _Jaskier._ ”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier grunts back, barely any volume behind it. “ _More_ , please.”

Geralt hums and pushes a second finger against the resistance of the muscle. It sinks inside even slower than the first, and Jaskier lets out an absolutely broken whine that sends shivers down Geralt’s spine. He stills his fingers once they’re both inside to the third knuckle. A glance down at his fingers sunk into Jaskier’s body makes his cock throb, and he drops his head to Jaskier’s ribs, mouthing at them a little desperately for a distraction.

Jaskier allows it, for a moment, but then he’s moving again, hips shifting back and forth. Geralt thinks to stop him but changes his mind; instead, he sits up a little, enough to watch everything – from Jaskier’s face to where Geralt’s fingers are buried in his body. Jaskier’s eyes are shut, but his lids flutter every few seconds, and his mouth is wide open, gasps and pants and whimpers pouring from him. Slowly, his hips go from vague twitching to real movement. Geralt stiffens his wrist and lets him, curling his fingers just so.

The cry that rips out of Jaskier’s throat when Geralt’s fingertips press against that little bundle of nerves inside him is so completely unbound that Geralt can’t stop himself from shooting forward to _taste_ it. Jaskier falls into the kiss with desperation, his hands turning into claws on Geralt’s back when Geralt takes over and starts properly fingering him.

Any amount of coherence Jaskier had previously crumbles to dust when Geralt starts to stretch him for real. He’s squirming and bucking his hips and damn near crying, and if it weren’t for the tight grip he has on Geralt’s shoulders and the rhythmic clenching of his body on Geralt’s fingers, the witcher would have pulled away to check that he wasn’t hurting.

But he can tell that Jaskier is enjoying himself. Maybe too much, based on the tears starting to leak from his eyes. Geralt leans forward and licks up one of the trails of saltwater, until he gets to where Jaskier’s eyes are squeezed shut. He presses a gentle kiss to his eyelid.

“Ge – Ger _alt,_ ” Jaskier manages to gasp out, after several minutes, eyes fluttering just open enough for Geralt to see the thin ring of blue around his pupils. “ _More._ ”

Geralt doesn’t hesitate, just sliding a third finger along the first two and pushing them all in. Still slowly, but not nearly as slowly as before. Jaskier is rocking his hips long before they’re even buried inside him, those same little whines working out of his open mouth. He’s back to his incoherence, no real words at all, just noises.

The noises are just as good as his voice, though. Geralt nips at Jaskier’s lip and sinks his three fingers as deep as they can get, then slowly spreads them apart, as far as he can in the tight clutch.

Jaskier arches, face twisting, and keens. “C- _close_ ,” he manages to spit out, eyes still screwed shut. “ _Geralt._ ”

Geralt keeps his fingers spread apart as he pulls them back, then pushes them back in just the same, only stopping to pour more oil into the wet-pink gap between them. He leans forward, still thrusting his fingers, in-out-in-out, curled just so to brush along Jaskier’s prostate each time, and nibbles at Jaskier’s earlobe.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, voice as rough as gravel.

Jaskier makes a punched-out sound, like something hit him in the gut, and _obeys._

Geralt nearly loses it, too. His cock throbs hard enough to bob wildly between his legs, and he groans against Jaskier’s throat. Geralt keeps fingering him, slowing as Jaskier comes down from his second orgasm, eventually coming to a stop with his fingers still buried inside.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasps. “ _Please_ fuck me.”

Geralt grins but shakes his head. “One more,” he says, a fourth finger rubbing at the rim stretched around his knuckles.

Jaskier makes a noise somewhere between moan and an indignant huff, shuddering. “ _Hurry._ ”

Geralt nuzzles at his temple, flicking his tongue out at a new trail of saltwater. Jaskier just turns his face toward the affection, mouthing at Geralt’s cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, little lark.”

Jaskier shivers again. “You won’t,” he says. “Please, Geralt. Want you so badly.”

Geralt hums and leans back up to add more oil, testing the resistance to a fourth finger gently. There isn’t any; his pinky slips inside with hardly any pressure, and when he rocks his hand back and forth, Jaskier’s eyes roll and his cock twitches.

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier whimpers, sounding the most desperate he has all night. Geralt’s nostrils flare as the smell of his arousal practically doubles, the scent so thick he can _taste_ it. He eases his fingers out, ignoring the weak sound of protest Jaskier gives, and pours oil over his cock.

He leans up, rutting his slick cock in the crease of Jaskier’s hip. It sends fire up his spine, molten heat spreading from the base of his skull outward. The way Jaskier gasps and shifts to open his legs even wider is even better.

Jaskier turns his head and catches Geralt’s mouth, the kiss sloppy because of the slightly-off angle and the fact that Geralt very well might just cum like this. Jaskier’s skin is soft and blazing hot and the way Jaskier keeps moving his legs and hips encouraging the grinding, he’s nearly lost.

Jaskier seems to think that’s just fine. He leans up on an elbow, just enough to lick at Geralt’s ear, and murmurs, “I want you to mark me yours.” It’s the lowest and roughest and _filthiest_ Geralt has ever heard his voice.

Geralt outright whines and comes all over Jaskier’s hip and thigh, entire body shaking as he rides it out, still grinding forward into the mix of hard bone and soft skin. “ _Jaskier,_ ” he gasps, and the way Jaskier moans in response has an aftershock rocking through him.

He doesn’t go soft, and he knows that Jaskier notices. His hips jolt and he whimpers, eyes fluttering. Geralt kisses him again, deep and filled with tongue. When he finally pulls away, his lips are buzzing and Jaskier is getting hard again.

“Fuck me, Witcher,” Jaskier demands, and Geralt laughs.

“How do you want it?” he asks, instead of obeying. Jaskier huffs, but seems to think on it. After a moment, his eyes light up – excited and mischievous. Geralt wonders if maybe that should worry him, but it doesn’t.

“Can I ride you?” Jaskier asks, chewing on his lip. Geralt groans, heartfelt, and pries that lip from Jaskier’s teeth to take it in his own.

“Yes,” he rumbles, and shifts out of the cradle of Jaskier’s legs so he can lie down. Jaskier scrambles after him, straddling his waist as soon as Geralt is settled comfortably.

“I imagined this,” Jaskier says, leaning forward a little and tracing a pattern over the scars on Geralt’s chest. “During those massages. I wanted to touch you so badly.”

“You _were_ touching me,” Geralt teases, a little breathless with the proximity. Jaskier is putting off heat like a bonfire.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Geralt hums, running his hands up Jaskier’s thighs to his waist. “I wanted it, too.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter at that, and his neck goes a little loose, allowing his head to drop. “ _Fuck,_ hearing that you want me is….”

He doesn’t finish, seemingly content to leave it there. Geralt hums again, squeezing Jaskier’s waist – his hands almost reach entirely around it – and using the grip to shift him just slightly back. Jaskier laughs, getting the hint, and kneels up, reaching back to grasp at Geralt’s cock.

Geralt groans at the touch but stays still, letting Jaskier go at his own pace. He just grinds back against Geralt’s cock for a moment, his loose hole catching on the head, teasing with the heat and slick. Geralt groans again, keeps groaning when Jaskier slowly starts to take him in.

He moves slowly. So slowly Geralt thinks he might lose his mind, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he forces his eyes wide open to take in every detail of Jaskier.

His mouth is open again, little broken noises falling from his slack lips. His eyes aren’t closed, but only barely; Geralt can’t see anything besides the dark shadow of his pupil under his lashes. His head is tipped back, just enough to stretch his neck into a delicious line, and all the muscles in his belly and thighs are tense and twitching. Geralt lets go of his waist with one hand to pet over his abs, to cup his half-hard cock in his palm.

Jaskier shudders and gasps, his head falling all the way back as he drops another inch onto Geralt’s cock. Geralt answers with his own panting, legs shaking from his restraint.

Another slow inch and Jaskier whimpers. “Gods, I’m going to feel you for a _week,_ ” he mumbles. “ _Fuck,_ you feel so good.”

“So – _oh_ – so do you,” Geralt growls, hands flexing against Jaskier’s waist as the next few inches slide in. The heat is incredible, the tightness even more so. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s jackrabbit pulse through his _cock_ and it’s making him downright unsteady.

Jaskier just hums. He lifts up just a little, then shifts back down. The friction has Geralt grinding his teeth to keep a hold of his tenuous control.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he whines. The other man laughs, but it’s broken and breathless.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” he breathes, lifting and dropping again, and again, going a little further down each time. “When the Queen hired you to deal with the ghouls, I was with the other servants, eavesdropping.”

Geralt snorts, eyes rolling when Jaskier slides almost all the way down before lifting again.

“One look at your leather pants and yellow eyes and I was smitten.”

Jaskier tips his head back down to look at Geralt, and Geralt does his best to keep his eyes open, to make eye contact. Jaskier looks wrecked, and the sight of him debauched and the clench of him tight around Geralt’s cock is almost too much. Geralt bites his lip bloody to hold back his orgasm.

It only takes a few more rises and falls before Jaskier is settled, his ass pressing into Geralt’s hips.

“ _Oh,_ fuck,” Jaskier gasps, eyes fluttering and hands grasping at nothing until he leans a little forward and finds Geralt’s chest. “Sweet fucking Melitele.”

Geralt would return the sentiment, but words seem to have abandoned him entirely. His hands flex on Jaskier’s waist again and he can’t stop the way his hips jolt up when Jaskier _clenches._

Jaskier’s only response is to whine, long and broken, and start to move.

At first, he just grinds; shifts his hips in little figure eights with Geralt’s cock buried as deep in him as it can get. It obviously feels good, based on the way he’s whimpering and clenching hard. Geralt shudders hard and moves with him, raising his knees a little to get better leverage. Jaskier’s mouth drops open, tongue peeking out, and moves faster, going from grinding to bouncing. He’s barely lifting more than a couple of inches at a time before he shifts back down, but even that small amount of friction is mind-blowing. Geralt growls and uses his grip on his waist to guide the movement, slipping his hands down to Jaskier’s hips to adjust the angle, until –

“ _Oh fuck_!” Jaskier shouts, fingers curling into claws against Geralt’s chest and toes curling against his calves. “Sweet motherfucking gods, _Geralt_!”

Geralt holds his hips in a steel grip to keep the angle and lifts his legs more, so he can get some power behind his thrusts. Jaskier moves with him, thighs flexing, making little punched out noises each time he drops down and Geralt thrusts up. His cock is started to harden again, slowly but surely, and Geralt grits his teeth, moving faster.

The pace picks up between them, faster and faster until Jaskier can’t keep up and Geralt is lifting and dropping him by himself. Geralt doesn’t mind, growling when Jaskier’s thighs just tighten around his hips. His gaze flicks between Jaskier’s face, mouth slack and eyes closed in pleasure, and where Jaskier’s cock, fully hard now, is bouncing between them.

Geralt can feel the orgasm building at the base of his spine, starting so close to boiling over that he knows he has no chance to stop it now. He groans out some semblance of a warning, not that he even knows what he says, and Jaskier just whines, clenching hard.

It barely takes three more jarring thrusts before Geralt is coming. He pulls Jaskier down and holds him there, grinding up into his body as the white-hot pleasure washes over him. When he comes back down, Jaskier is whimpering, stroking his own cock rapidly, eyes wide and fixed on Geralt’s face.

Geralt grunts and bats his hand away, taking over. He still hasn’t softened, and Jaskier starts to grind against him again. It’s almost painful, it feels so good; Geralt grits his teeth and digs his thumbnail into the slit of Jaskier’s cock, and that’s all it takes.

Jaskier truly does sound inhuman when he comes, his inner muscles clamping down on Geralt so tightly that it milks a startlingly strong aftershock out of him. Geralt whimpers through it and lets Jaskier take his pleasure, grinding slowly into his body at a rhythm counterpoint to the one Jaskier’s shuddering through.

When he finally calms, Geralt goes to lift him off, but Jaskier’s nails dig sharp into his collar

“No,” Jaskier rasps, eyes still closed. After a small pause, he starts to rock back and forth again, forcing a shocked grunt out of Geralt. “Stay. Want…want to be full of you.”

Geralt goes a little cross-eyed at that, grabbing at Jaskier’s shoulder to yank him down into a bruising kiss. They stay like that for what feels like a small eternity, kissing, while Jaskier rocks gently back and forth, barely enough movement for friction but so fucking good Geralt doesn’t want anything else.

Jaskier’s cock is soft, wet with cum. Geralt reaches between them to pet at it, and Jaskier doesn’t object. He just clenches down on Geralt’s cock and keeps rocking, mouth going slack. Geralt sucks at his lips, his tongue, traces over his teeth, and Jaskier shudders hard.

“Geralt,” he slurs. “Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs back, petting down Jaskier’s back, through his hair, over his soft cock between them. Jaskier doesn’t stop rocking. He presses into the touches, whining softly, eyes fluttering and out of focus.

Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but he knows it’s a while; by the time he’s worked up to another orgasm, Jaskier’s cock is trying to twitch back to life between them. A small, shocked sound punches out of Jaskier’s throat every time it twitches, and he whimpers each time Geralt touches him. But he never stops _moving,_ rocking his hips so gently, working Geralt’s cock more with his muscles than his movements.

As far as Geralt is concerned, if he died right now, it would be a gift.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt gasps, feeling the edges of his orgasm spread through his veins. “I’m – oh, gods. Close, again.”

Jaskier whines, a small, broken thing, and pries his glazed eyes open. “Please,” he slurs out. “Want to be leaking you for days.”

That’s all it takes; Geralt grunts and jolts as his orgasm crashes over him like an anvil falling. He knows his grip on Jaskier’s hips is bruising, but Jaskier is trying to grind closer, moaning and whimpering and clutching at Geralt anywhere he can.

“I want to be yours,” Jaskier gasps out, at the same time that Geralt whispers, “Be mine,” into his hair.

Jaskier pulls back, fumbling, and blinks his eyes to clear them. Geralt doesn’t look away, ignoring the way his heartrate spikes and then skips when their eyes meet.

Instead of speaking, Jaskier just smiles. After a moment, he slowly lifts off of Geralt’s cock – finally softening, though he could go again if he tries – and slowly shifts forward, so he’s still straddling Geralt but sitting forward. He’s leaking Geralt’s spend all over Geralt’s own abdomen and something about that makes him shudder. He pulls Jaskier down for another kiss, a slow, deep, filthy thing.

Jaskier is half-hard between them.

Geralt breaks this kiss with one parting nibble on Jaskier’s lip and looks up into his blue, blue eyes. “Come here,” he murmurs, palming Jaskier’s ass and shifting him forward. Jaskier goes with the pull, though he looks unsure. Geralt just smiles and pulls him until Jaskier is straddling his throat, his jaw, and he can get his mouth around the cum-soaked length of him.

Jaskier gasps, then whines, then whimpers, all broken, all weak and high-pitched and beautiful. His hands go to Geralt’s hair, a sweaty mess tangled on his head, and Geralt just hums in encouragement. Slowly, Jaskier gets harder and harder in his mouth. Geralt revels in the sensation, sucking gently until he can no longer taste anything except Jaskier’s salty-sweet skin.

“ _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier manages to pant. “I – I’m – I want….” He tugs at Geralt’s hair, lifting his hips just a little.

Geralt pulls back, just barely, so that his lips are still pursed around the head of Jaskier’s cock. “Go ahead,” he whispers, flicking his tongue into the slit. “Fuck my face, Jaskier.”

Jaskier whimpers and his hips jolt forward, shoving his cock over Geralt’s tongue and into the back of his throat. Not to the point of gagging or choking – as if Geralt would, anyway – but close. Geralt swallows and hollows his cheeks, sucking and massaging the soft-hard flesh with his tongue. Jaskier made a series of broken noises and settled into a clumsy rhythm.

“Oh, oh, _oh,_ ” Jaskier is reduced to incoherent noises all over again, his hands flexing in Geralt’s hair, his hips moving quickly but with no rhythm. Geralt just keeps his mouth soft and massaging around his cock, eyes half-lidded as he watches Jaskier slowly fall apart above him, until – “Oh, _fuck,_ Geralt!”

Jaskier’s cock pushes to the back of Geralt’s mouth, threatening his throat, and Geralt swallows everything that he gives, keeps swallowing until Jaskier shudders so hard his teeth rattle and shoves himself back and to the side.

He doesn’t stay away for long, nearly immediately curling around Geralt’s side and nuzzling sleepily into his neck.

Geralt shifts to put an arm below Jaskier’s shoulders, then rolls to wrap him in the other and tangle their legs. Jaskier nuzzles closer, making a hoarse, content sound, and mouths at Geralt’s chin sleepily. Geralt smiles at the affection and squeezes him.

They lay like that until their breathing has evened out and they’re uncomfortably sticky. Jaskier is the first to move, though it’s only barely; he pushes back just enough to lean up on an elbow, so he’s looking down, leaning over Geralt with their faces a few inches apart.

“We should take another bath.”

Geralt hums in acknowledgement, brushing their lips together. “We should.”

Jaskier smiles and kisses him, short and sweet. “Carry me?”

Geralt laughs, chasing the kiss until Jaskier gives in and kisses him again, a little deeper. When they break apart, Geralt brushes their noses together, and Jaskier flushes. “Alright,” he agrees, and untangles them so that he can stand. As soon as he’s sure he’s steady on his feet, he bends and pulls Jaskier up into his arms, bridal-style.

Jaskier giggles and presses his face into Geralt’s neck.

* * *

The water is nearly cool by the time either of them says anything more. It’s Jaskier, of course, who mumbles the words into the corner of Geralt’s jaw, only just loud enough to hear, even for Geralt’s advanced senses.

“I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow,” he murmurs. “I…don’t want to go back to the Queen.”

Geralt’s heart squeezes in his chest and he turns, kissing Jaskier as gently as he’s able. “Come with me,” he whispers into it, an absolutely ludicrous request. He repeats it anyway. “Come with me, travel with me.”

Jaskier’s eyes are wide when Geralt opens his. He looks…terrified. And hopeful, all at once. Geralt swallows.

“I – she would never,” Jaskier says, and his lip is trembling. “The Queen…. I’m one of her favorites. She…paid a lot,” Jaskier looks away at that, and Geralt bites back the growl that rises in his chest, “to have me. If I ran away, she would have me hunted down. We’d never find peace, never.”

Geralt hisses, pressing his face into Jaskier’s throat to hide the snarl forming on his lips. He…hates the Queen, even more so now than he did before, and….

Jaskier is his. Jaskier, Dandelion – Geralt has become attached, in the week they’ve spent together, and looking over the bruises he’s scattered across Jaskier’s skin, he never wants to let go.

“I…,” Geralt starts, then stops. “I want to suggest something.”

“What?” Jaskier’s voice is a little watery. Geralt hugs him closer.

“I have an idea, but,” Geralt pauses to trail gentle kisses up and down Jaskier’s throat. “It’s not – when I tell you my idea, I don’t want you to think that its how I see you. It’s – the Queen, her view of you, of what and who you are.”

“Geralt, what are you talking about?”

Geralt takes a breath. “The Queen and her Lords have not yet paid me for the ghouls,” he says. “I’m sure you remember the Queen mentioning it.”

Jaskier nods.

“What if,” Geralt swallows the lump that’s forming in his throat, “I ask that you’re my payment. Instead of coin, instead of gold.”

Jaskier jolts. “Geralt – ”

“You’re not a thing,” Geralt interrupts, desperate for Jaskier to understand that he doesn’t think the way the Queen does, “you’re not – a possession, but she sees you as one. She sees you as something she can use and – and _borrow_ to other people, like a trinket. But you’re _not,_ Jaskier, you’re…,” Geralt trails off, not sure what he was going to say as so many thoughts clamor to the forefront of his mind. _The sun, my stars._ He swallows again. “You’re a person, whole and complete in your own right, and no one has the right to own you.”

Jaskier pushes Geralt back, away from him, and Geralt’s heart stops and sinks, but before he can do anything – apologize, something – Jaskier is kissing him. It’s sharp and messy and violent, but Jaskier’s hands are trembling on Geralt’s jaw and he’s crying.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes into his mouth. “Geralt, please. Do you think she would agree?”

Geralt thinks about the bodies in the sewers, the Queen’s brand on them, one of them the daughter of a Lord, and nods. “I do,” he says, and when Jaskier blinks at him, mouth open to reply, he shakes his head, continues, “and if she won’t, I will find a way to make her.”

Jaskier’s mouth shuts. He’s still crying, tears leaking slowly down his cheeks. Geralt brushes them away and kisses his nose.

“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes. “Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Thank you.”

Geralt just hums and kisses him again, long and deep and unhurried. They still had so much time before morning, before he’d have to speak to the Queen about his payment. He wanted to spend that time holding Jaskier close.

* * *

Geralt is up at dawn. He stokes the fire, adds more wood, and paces the room for nearly an hour, just thinking.

He plans to speak to the Queen alone – or, as alone as a Queen ever gets, he’s not stupid – and ask that his payment be changed. Originally, they had agreed on coin or gold, whichever was worth more at the time. But he’s played her game and remained for a week, gone to her meals and played nice with the nobility, he thinks he’s allowed to try and renegotiate. The Queen is shrewd and callous, not unreasonable. If she refuses that offer, Geralt plans to ask her how much she thinks Jaskier is worth; at current, he has a sort of unreasonable amount of money, because of a series of jobs a month or so ago that led to him discovering what amounted to buried treasure. The villagers, so thrilled that their monsters had been rid of, allowed him to keep all of it. He’ll demand his payment from the Queen and use whatever money he has to _buy_ Jaskier, if he has to, even if it turns his stomach.

And if she refuses either of those, he’ll force her hand.

Ghouls do not like the living unless they’re desperate, as a rule. They’re creatures of the night, and they like their food when it doesn’t fight; it’s not often that they’re found in cities, especially not inside castle gates, and even rarer in the sewers below cities and castles. Ghouls are found in graveyards, cemeteries, battlefields. Sewers usually only have dead rats and the occasional corpse – not enough to feed a pack of necrophages.

So a ghoul infestation large enough to take Geralt two weeks to root it out? That was suspicious from the start.

The fact that he found actual piles of bodies deep in the sewer only confirmed his suspicions. Upon inspecting the bodies, he’d found a whole host of clues – not the least of which was that a lot of them were branded. Queen’s property. Servants and slaves and others, all winding up dead in the sewers. The other bodies were nobility – small time nobility, but aristocrats all the same. Upon doing some talking to the peasants and castle servants, he’d found that all of the nobility who had disappeared were, in some way, in opposition of the Queen.

It’s not hard to add one to one, after all.

Jaskier is awake by the time the sun rises. He rolls into the space that Geralt had been the night before and grunts unhappily, sitting up to glance blearily around the room. Geralt has been sitting at the table for at least an hour now, meditating. He’s alert immediately at the increase in Jaskier’s heartrate, the smell of disappointment that quickly dissipates when Jaskier spots Geralt.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice absolutely shot. Geralt fights a shiver at the sound, because he knows why Jaskier’s voice sounds like that, and turns to face him. “Why are you over there?”

Geralt smiles and goes back to the bed, sitting up against the wall. Jaskier rolls to lay his head on Geralt’s thigh, making a happy little noise and closing his eyes again. Geralt pets through his hair.

“When are you speaking with the Queen?” Jaskier asks after for a moment.

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier hums and turns his face until his forehead is pressed to Geralt’s hip. Geralt just keeps petting his hair.

Eventually, he drifts back to sleep. Geralt takes a deep breath and goes back to meditating.

Jaskier is woken and Geralt is brought back to awareness when someone knocks on the room door. Jaskier scrambles into sleepclothes and goes to answer it. He speaks quickly with the other servant, hushed, and then closes the door again.

“She wants to have lunch with you. Alone.”

Geralt nods.

Jaskier pushes a hand through his hair and sighs, starting to pace. “What’s your plan?”

Geralt sighs, too. “I have three.”

Jaskier just waves a hand, a gesture to continue, and keeps pacing.

“I’ll see if she’s willing to renegotiate my payment, to give me you instead of coin,” Geralt says, slowly. What they discussed last night, what Jaskier already knows. “And…if she refuses that.”

He stops, not able to continue for a moment. Jaskier stops pacing and looks at him.

“How much do you think she’d ask for me?” he asks.

Geralt’s heart squeezes for too many reasons for him to handle. He stands and pulls Jaskier into his arms, burying his face into the other man’s throat, taking a deep breath of buttercups and lavender and lemon. “I don’t know,” Geralt murmurs. “But I’d pay her anything.”

Jaskier’s hands are trembling when they come up to Geralt’s shoulders. “And if she says no to that, too?”

Geralt swallows and pulls him just a little closer. “The ghoul infestation was her fault,” he says, softly. “Too many bodies in the sewers – servants and slaves and nobility alike.” Jaskier’s hands tighten on his shoulders, til they’re nearly bruising, and Geralt just noses into the soft hair at his nape, squeezing his arms.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier finally breathes, sounding stunned. “She….”

“She was having them killed and dumped in the sewers.”

“Gods.” Jaskier turns his head to bury his face in Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah.”

They stand there together for a long time, until Geralt’s arms ache a little from how tight he’s holding on. When they finally separate, Jaskier pouts.

“It’s nearly lunch time,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

“Pack up anything you want to take with you. I’ll have you pack my things, as well. I want to be out of the castle and out of the city before the Queen has the chance to change her mind.”

Jaskier nods and leans up, intention clear even past the anxiety rolling off him in waves. Geralt tilts his head and kisses him. It’s soft and chaste, but no less electrifying for it.

“I think I love you,” Jaskier whispers, against his lips.

Geralt’s heart skips and then speeds up incrementally. He kisses Jaskier again, a little less chaste.

He can’t say the words, not right now – not when he’s not sure what the Queen will do. Instead, he murmurs, “Go pack, little lark,” against Jaskier’s lips, leaving him with one more too-desperate kiss before he steps back.

Jaskier swallows and nods, then disappears out the door. Geralt dresses methodically, choosing his own clothes, forgoing the armor but wearing his weapons. He looks imposing, he knows, and that’s the point.

Even royalty is afraid of their mortality, no matter how much they pretend.

He’s led to a private dining room by a servant he’s never even seen. The Queen is already there, reclined in a ridiculously plush chair, and she gestures to an equally ostentatious, but smaller chair, across from her. There are three knights in the room; one near the Queen’s side, and two hiding in the shadows.

Geralt takes a seat, back ramrod-straight, and eats the food in front of him. About halfway through the meal, the Queen gestures and says something quiet to the knight at her side and he leaves. The two hiding remain.

“I suppose you’ll be demanding your payment, now,” the Queen drawls, popping a grape into her mouth. The sound it makes between her teeth makes the hair on Geralt’s neck stand up.

“About that,” Geralt nods, then shakes his head. “I wanted to propose that we renegotiate.”

The Queen’s gaze sharpens. “Oh? And what makes you think you have the right to change our agreement now, Witcher?”

Geralt bites his cheek bloody, then takes a deep breath. “I am not asking for a higher amount,” he says, first. “In fact, I’m not asking for coin or gold at all. If you’ll agree to this, I’ll take nothing but it.”

The Queen sits up. Geralt doesn’t flinch.

“I want Dandelion.” The name feels oddly unfamiliar in his mouth now, since he spent the night using Jaskier.

The Queen laughs, but it’s cut short when Geralt doesn’t join in or react. “You’re serious,” she says, and her tone doesn’t bely any shock, but Geralt can sense it all the same. “Why on earth would I give him to you, Witcher? He is one of my favorites, after all.”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder. “There’s no reason you would, but I wanted to try asking first. If you won’t give him to me as payment, then I want our agreed upon price, and I pose another question. How much do you want for him?”

“More than I would ever give you.”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I have more money than what you would pay me for this, Your Majesty.”

The Queen huffs. With a flourish, she stands and walks to the other side of the room, staring out the window. “Somehow, I think, you have a way to make me agree to your proposal. Do you, Witcher?”

Geralt stands, eyes catching the small shifting of the knights in the corners.

“The bodies in the sewer,” Geralt starts, “are very incriminating, Your Majesty.”

“I am surprised you have not tried to do away with me already.”

Geralt resists a snort, but does roll his eyes, since the Queen isn’t looking at him. “I do not usually concern myself with common murders, unless there is a good reason,” he explains. “And you, Your Majesty, I am sorry to say, are far from the first ruler with blood-soaked hands that I have dealt with. You will also not be the last.”

They fall into silence. Geralt lets it be, simply watching the Queen, occasionally glancing to the knights, who are still poised to attack if they need to. Finally, the Queen sighs.

“He’s yours,” she says, turning around. “He’s yours, and I’ll give you your coin, too, if you give me your word that the bodies in the sewers will stay between us.”

Despite Geralt’s distaste for that – for the Queen, for her court, in general – that’s even more than he could have ever hoped for. “Agreed.”

She doesn’t need to know that Geralt has already told Jaskier, and that it’s entirely possible half the servants or more know by now. They’ll be gone by dawn tomorrow, and Geralt is in no hurry to return.

He’s dismissed after the Queen hands him a heavy bag of coin, and he hurries back to his room. Jaskier is there, a small bag at his feet, Geralt’s things in his arms. His eyes are wide and worried, until he see’s the look on Geralt’s face, and his expression slowly transforms to hopeful.

And then, abruptly, into radiant joy when Geralt drops the coin at his feet, ducks down, and picks him up to spin him around like he’s a damsel. Jaskier laughs and clings to Geralt’s neck.

“Let’s go, little lark,” Geralt says. “Come on.”

They leave quickly, and find Roach in the stable where she should be. She’s not thrilled about leaving her very nice temporary home but seems placated by the apple that Jaskier gives her. Geralt could kiss him for it but doesn’t for the sake of hurrying. Roach is only a little miffed about a second rider. The apple is probably the only reason she doesn’t buck.

Once their belongings are secure and Jaskier is holding tight to him, Geralt heads for the gates at the quickest pace he can muster in the city. Outside the gates, he kicks Roach into a trot, and then, once the road widens and the surroundings turn into fields, into a gallop.

Behind him, arms still wound tight around Geralt’s waist, Jaskier whoops, then presses a kiss behind Geralt’s ear.

**Author's Note:**

> please validate me oh my _god_
> 
> i dove headfirst into this fandom so fucking fast and have like 7 other fics in the works and i need support
> 
> also this was definitely not supposed to be 14.5k words but yOU'RE WELCOME


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